


In Love's Service

by Laiquilasse



Series: Fighting For Air [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Mild Gore, Vampire John Watson, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-03-13 17:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18945127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laiquilasse/pseuds/Laiquilasse
Summary: "In Love's service, only wounded soldiers can serve..."As Sherlock and John's relationship suffers a twist neither of them wanted or expected, the two of them must decide what is really worth fighting for, and when it is right to let go.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please read Soldier of Fortune before beginning this fic! Thanks to everyone for your kind support and comments and love for part one. I hope you enjoy what's to come!

“Sherlock, what the fuck’s going on?”

Sherlock’s mind seemed to have turned to sludge. His chest was tight with a dozen emotions at once. John… his John… John Watson, who had lain dead for days, now upright and talking, and – well, certainly not alive in the conventional sense, but most definitely not deceased.

The slow ache of mourning seemed to drain down his limbs, replaced by the cold facts of the truth.

John’s red eyes were enough on a confirmation – his inability to control his new strength was another. He was no longer deceased, yes. But he was also no longer human.

James Moriarty had given him the one thing he never wanted. He had changed him.

Sherlock’s bone froze in quiet horror. “Oh god,” he whispered.

John raised his hands again. Touched at his neck, where the terrible wounds that had been there had now healed over, leaving pale and smooth skin. If Sherlock has been watching him instead of being wracked with grief on the floor, he would have seen the skin knit back together, the scars of John’s recent surgery – and Sherlock’s bite – erased. Only old scars would remain on John’s body, now. He would never be marked again.

John suddenly shot off the bed as though it was on fire, and darted over to the mirror so fast he might have been a blur to human eyes. Sherlock saw him perfectly – moving with vampiric speed over to the glass. John stopped in front of the dressing table, and gasped in shock as a pair of scarlet eyes looked back at him. The transformation had taken a few years off his face as well, though left the rest of him untouched. He still had his soldier’s body, his face with the laughter-lines, those strong arms and hands that Sherlock knew so well…

And Sherlock’s heart suddenly sang with happiness as he realised what a gift he had been given. John… come back to him. He thought he had lost him forever, but now -

“No…” John shook his head, and reached for the mirror. The glass broke under his fingers, the fractured glass refusing to pierce his skin. “No…” his voice broke in a sob. “No, no, no…No, Sherlock, please tell me you didn’t…”

Sherlock’s happiness evaporated instantly. This wasn’t what John wanted. It didn’t matter how much it meant to Sherlock, this was going to be devastating for John. Sherlock knew what it was like not to choose this life. He needed to help John understand. And to understand that it wasn’t he who caused it. “I didn’t…” Sherlock pulled himself up on the wardrobe. “John, I wanted…”

John’s head whipped around, and his fangs dropped down like knives.

Sherlock went still. Though John couldn’t kill him, his fangs could still do serious damage. Sherlock had had to spend more than one uncomfortable night waiting for a limb to re-attach back in his early vampiric days.

“What the _fuck_ did you do to me, Sherlock?” John eyes flashed like rubies in the afternoon light. His mouth was open, fangs bared, his shoulders set in an animalistic way Sherlock had never seen before. John was running on instinct, and Sherlock would have to talk him down.

Sherlock shook his head. “J-”

John launched himself at him with a scream.

Sherlock, his brain believing his eyes when they told it that the vampire in front of him was John, did not bother to brace himself. That was his first mistake.

John crashed into him like a train, and Sherlock went down like a felled tree, landing hard on the floor as John, screeching like a demon, raking at Sherlock’s arms as he tried to grab hold of him. “YOU FUCK! YOU BASTARD! I NEVER SAID YOU COULD DO THIS TO ME!”

“It wasn’t me, you idiot!” Sherlock tried to throw John off but it was like trying to avoid an angry bull. Newly turned vampires were strong even compared to the rest of their kind, and John was furious to boot. “John, stop this –” Sherlock gasped as John raked down his face with fingernails like blades, drawing black blood before the wounds sealed over instantly. Sherlock hissed right into John’s face, and threw him off, scrambling to his feet.

John was on him again like lightning, hands around his throat. A piece of luck. He was still fighting like a human, and Sherlock didn’t need to breathe.

Sherlock stopped fighting, and let himself flop to the floor.

John squeezed harder, and something in Sherlock’s neck went _pop_.

“Alright,” he forced out, voice barely a scratch. “You’ve broken my neck. Listen now? I didn’t turn you. Listen – to – your – blood –” Sherlock ran out of air, and gestured lamely at John’s body.

John’s hands went still, and he hesitated.

Sherlock’s hand shot up and he mercilessly poked John in both eyes with his fingers.

John shrieked and fell backwards, hands to his eyes.

Sherlock inhaled, feeling his neck-bones click back into place. “Listen to your blood,” he rasped. “John Watson, I did not turn you. I’m not your Creator. I’m not… I didn’t…”

John let his hands fall down from his face. There was no sign of injury, and although Sherlock knew there wouldn’t be, he felt relieved. Hurting John had gone against everything natural. “You didn’t do it?” John asked.

“No.”

John’s eyes fell on the smashed bedside table, and the bed beside it. There was still a dent where his body had been. He stood, and walked over to the bed, hand stretched out.

“Gentle,” Sherlock cautioned, like John was a child.

John reached cautiously, and put a hand in the place he had laid. He was quiet for a moment. “It’s cold,” he said.

Sherlock nodded. “I thought you were dead. I brought you home. I…” he stopped, a great weight seemed to land on his chest as his grief returned. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

John stared at the cold spot on the bed. Then turned, and sat on the floor, facing Sherlock. His clothes were still covered in old blood, and there was dust in his hair. “The last thing I remember was you coming into that room,” he said. “And then… nothing. What happened?”

Sherlock took a breath. “Moriarty bit you,” he said. “He must have implanted venom in your blood-stream at that moment. I doubt he was certain it would work, and I don’t think it was something he planned, either. Or else he would have done it before draining you.”

John glanced down at his legs. “I remember that,” he said bitterly.

“I think it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. And then, he…” Sherlock clenched his jaw for a moment. “Then, he… killed you.”

“How?” John asked instantly.

“He broke your neck.” Sherlock rubbed the back of his own. “Ironically.”

John didn’t apologise. “And then what?”

“Then… then he disappeared. Left me with you… your body. I didn’t… Vampires don’t have funerals,” Sherlock said, his throat catching as he spoke, “we disregard bodies, don’t need them around to mourn, but… I couldn’t leave you there. I thought… if you knew, you’d be furious.”

“You brought me home,” John looked at the ceiling. “When was that? Yesterday?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “Days ago. I haven’t left the room since… I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t… move.”

John narrowed his red eyes at him. “What do you mean?” he snapped.

“I thought you were DEAD!” Sherlock shouted. “Gone, dead, forever, I…” he shook his head. “I had no idea you were going to come back to me. I didn’t know how to _exist_ without you. I…”

John looked away. He shut his eyes, and took a deep breath through his nose. Then gagged. “Uh. What is that?”

“Probably the bed,” Sherlock sighed. “You were dead for some time.”

“You’re saying I started…. going off?”

“You must have been on the borderline for the venom to work,” Sherlock nodded. “Your body was already partway dead when I got to you.” He gave John a calculating look. “I know this isn’t what you wanted –”

“Fuck right it isn’t.”

“-but I can help you,” Sherlock ploughed on. “You don’t have to be like me, or like Moriarty. I can help you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

John shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t want to do this at all.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know. I’m sorry.”

The silence that covered them both was thick, and unpleasant.

John broke it first. “What happens now, then?”

“You need to feed,” Sherlock said. “It won’t be unpleasant, I promise you, it’s simply a matter of getting your head around it, and then… it’s natural.”

John looked as though he was somewhere between disgusted and hungry. His eyes flicked all over the room as if searching for a solution. “Does it have to be a…. person?” He asked.

“For the first time, yes,” Sherlock winced in sympathy. “After that, never again, if you… can.” He doubted it. No one gave up fresh blood. Not forever. And they had forever, now. A small smile bloomed on his lips, and he moved over towards John. “John, I know this wasn’t… but if this has to happen…”

“Don’t say you’re happy about it,” John pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare. I never wanted this. I wanted… I… fuck, I was going to leave you to try and stay safe and I…” he balled a hand into a fist and smashed it down onto the floorboards, going straight through. “I wish I was dead,” he said, humourlessly. “I really do.” He brought his hand up and looked at it, at the splinters falling away from his skin. “And instead I’ve got to kill someone else.”

“You don’t have to kill them, just bite them,” Sherlock corrected, though mentally he acknowledged that one was quite likely to lead to the other until John learned self-restraint. The only reason he wasn’t throwing himself out of the window to get at the humans outside was the shock of his transformation. That would pass. Sherlock needed to locate a victim before John took matters into his own hands. He might not have turned John, but the man – no – the new vampire was still his responsibility. He should have protected him better, whilst he was still alive.

John plucked at the filthy shirt he wore. “I lay dead in this,” he sniffed. “That’s disgusting.”

“People have lain in worse.”

“I don’t want to know.” He rubbed at his throat.

Sherlock watched. The thirst would begin soon. “Why don’t you change, and we can discuss… oh, I wouldn’t…” he reached to stop John as he picked up the fallen bottle of water and carefully uncapped it, though accidentally squeezing it too hard so some slopped over the carpet.

“Why not? You drink tea,” John countered, and before Sherlock could stop him, quaffed back the water.

Sherlock sighed, stood up, and backed off towards the door.

John watched him. “What?”

Sherlock just shook his head.

A moment later, John lurched forward and vomited a thick grey-black mess with the consistency of caramel over the floor.

 

*

 

“It has to get out of you somehow,” Sherlock said from the other side of the bathroom door. “First drink of blood helps it stay down, and come out… the other way.”

There was a heave and a curse from the bathroom.

“But at least it’ll be over soon,” Sherlock continued. “Really, it takes a good while for you to be able to stomach anything other than blood. I suspect it’s a survival tactic.”

A wet spitting sound came in reply. “Why?” John groaned. “Not like you can be poisoned, is it?”

“No,” Sherlock said, “but the first blood is so important, it’s as though your body is designed to reject anything else for a long time. Violently so.”

More spitting. “Why’s it so important, anyway? You don’t die, even if you starve yourself for ages.”

“No, but we get weaker, and that makes us vulnerable to other threats. And the first drink is the most important because it…” Sherlock stopped.

John flushed the toilet. “It what?”

“It, er,” Sherlock’s mind had started whirring at a mile a minute. “It, er…”

John opened the door. He was shirtless, and Sherlock was pleased to see the scar of his gunshot wound was still there. “Sherlock, I know when you’re avoiding the question.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m not avoiding. I just… realised something.”

“Realised what?”

There was no use lying. John would find out anyway, and never forgive him. Better he knew now, then… Oh god, but he was going to make such a  terrible decision… “The first drink of blood from a living person seals the magic of your transformation,” Sherlock said. “It has to come within a day of your awakening, or…”

John’s eyes shone. “Or? Sherlock – Sherlock are you telling me there’s a way out of this?”

Sherlock nodded. “If you can go twenty-four hours without biting a human, you die. Permanently, this time.”

John sagged against the doorframe. He blinked rapidly, unable to believe what he was hearing. “I can die?” He repeated.

“You won’t,” Sherlock said. “The urge to feed only gets stronger throughout the day. You’ll flee the flat and bite a pedestrian. You won’t be able to resist.”

“I can try,” John set his jaw, determined. “I don’t have to be a vampire. I can stay here, not go outside… I can beat this. Sherlock…” he reached for him, “you can help me?”

Sherlock wanted to say yes. But he couldn’t lie. He took John’s hand. “Do not ask me to stand by and watch you die again,” he whispered. “I lost you. I lost you, John. My heart hasn’t beaten for centuries and it broke at losing you. I… please do not ask me to lose you again.”

“But this isn’t me,” John gestured at himself with his free hand. “I don’t want this. Please!”

Sherlock shook his head. “I can’t.”

“If you ever loved me, you would help me do this,” John said.

“Don’t you dare throw that in my face,” Sherlock snapped. “Do not think for one instant that I do not care for you. You are my world. You’re –”

“Dead,” John finished for him. “This is a mistake, Sherlock. I don’t want to be like this. I would rather be dead.”

“You’re asking me to give you up again!”

“I’m asking you to let me go.”

They glared at one another.

Sherlock let go of John’s hand. “I can’t,” he said. “If you want to do this, you do it on your own. I am not going to help you to die, John Watson. I refuse to lose you again.”

John’s face shut down. “Fine,” he said. “Nice to know where you stand, Sherlock. I never thought you’d be so selfish.”

“You think _I_ am being selfish?”

“What else would you call this?!” John shouted. Then tried to gather himself. “I’m going to… I don’t know. Can’t sleep, can I?”

“You need to come out with me,” Sherlock insisted. “John, if you pull this off –”

“Then I’ll die. You’ll get over me. It’s what is _supposed_ to happen, Sherlock. Not this,” John looked bereft. “It was never meant to be this. Not for me.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock gave John an hour to calm down. He used the time to contact Mrs Hudson and tell her to stay away for the remainder of the month, money would be no object for her to book herself into any hotel she pleased. Sherlock considered contacting Mycroft, but couldn’t face it. The knowing looks and _I told you so_ s could wait until the present crisis had passed.

There were a great many messages and missed calls on his phone. Sherlock deleted them all unread. The world before John had turned seemed like something out of a story – unreal, and not relevant.

When the hour was up, he knocked on the bedroom door before letting himself in.

John was standing in front of the full-length mirror, mouth open as he probed at his descended fangs. He made eye contact with Sherlock in the mirror. “’ey.”

“Hey.” Sherlock watched him curiously. “Testing the sharpness? You won’t pierce your own skin unless you really try.”

“Ahm tryink to et em oo oh ack in,” John said, mouth still open.

“You mean, get them to retract?”

He nodded.

Sherlock had to smile. “It’s involuntary, when you first turn. Can happen without you wanting it to, or as a result of a stimulus.” His smile twitched. “Like an erection.”

John rolled his eyes and shut his mouth. “It feels awful,” he said. “I can’t talk properly. It’s like there’s not enough room in my mouth.”

“Well, there isn’t,” Sherlock shrugged. “Your human canine teeth haven’t dropped out yet.”

John’s eyes went wide. “Dropped out?!”

“Yes. How else would they fit? The fangs dropping and retracting help the old teeth loosen and eventually drop out, making room for your new, sharper, fangs.” He pulled up his own lip. “Indistinguishable when they’re dormant.”

John pulled a face. “I never knew that.”

“There’s a lot we don’t share with humans.” Sherlock glanced at the bathroom door. “The transformation process can go on for a long time before all vampiric characteristics are adopted.”

John sat on the edge of the bed. Sherlock noticed he’d stripped it and put the covers in the laundry basket. The bedroom window remained shut. John’s eyes darted towards it now and again, and his nostrils flared.

Sherlock could smell it, too. The hot reek of humanity strolling on down the street. He wouldn’t have minded going outside for a bite himself, it had been days after all… but John was digging his nails into his palms and looked haggard.

Sherlock spoke softly. “John… it’s only been an hour.”

“You think I don’t know that?” John’s head snapped up, his red eyes glittering.

“Two at the most since you awakened,” Sherlock went on. “You… can’t do this.”

“I will.”

“No, you’ll snap somewhere around the sixth hour and attack a child in the street,” Sherlock said. “Instead of letting me help you hunt a victim you won’t lose sleep over.”

“And you think I’ll feel better with the blood of a murderer or a rapist inside me?” John hissed.

“I think you’ll feel less remorse than with a dead child in your arms.”

They glared at one another.

Sherlock looked away first. He felt furious. He had half a mind to smash the windows and let nature take its course. But that would be the price to pay – prolong John’s life might result in losing him. It would different, of course, if he had turned him… John would be drawn to stay. But they had no connection whatsoever, now. Only love.

And that seemed shaky enough.

 

*

 

John made it past Sherlock’s prophesised sixth hour.

Messily.

He was restless, stalking around the flat, touching and fussing over things like an expectant mother, criticising the dust and accidentally knocking over or breaking a lot of things, including the kettle which crumpled in his grip like it was made of tinfoil. He pulled the door off the fridge and stood holding it, staring crazily until Sherlock took it off him and turned off the power. “Not as though you’ll need any of this food anyway,” he snorted as he dumped it all into black bin-liners. John didn’t try and help. He writhed about on the sofa and clawed at his throat when he thought Sherlock wasn’t looking.

As the seventh hour rolled on, John moved from restlessness to utter stillness.

He stood at one of the large windows in the living room, so close to it his nose was almost on the glass.

Sherlock made no move to pull him away. If John wanted to torment himself by staring at the pedestrians, he was welcome to it.

“What happened?” John asked suddenly.

“Happened?” Sherlock looked at him.

John cleared his throat. “When. Erm. When I was… bitten.” He swallowed and moved his mouth awkwardly, and Sherlock knew John’s fangs had dropped again. At the word ‘bitten’. He wanted to _bite_.

Sherlock forced himself to answer the question. “You were… very weak, already,” he said carefully. “I think, you were going to die. Regardless of what I did. I wanted to save you. But I was too late.”

John stayed looking out the window. “I think you were too late as soon as that vampire got on the tube,” he said. His voice sounded soft. “I shouldn’t have gone off alone.”

“You had no reason to think you wouldn’t be safe.”

“I mean… after the silver nitrate was sent to the flat… I should have been more careful.”

Sherlock looked down at his own hands. “I suspect some people would say you should never have come here to live at all.”

“And some people would say I shouldn’t have fucked you in the barracks,” John gave a smile to the window. “But what do they know?”

Sherlock’s chest ached. “Nothing.”

“Exactly.”

They were quiet for a moment, before John spoke again.

“So after he… you took me away?”

“He vanished as he let go of you,” Sherlock clarified. “He let you fall to the ground after killing you.”

“And he did that… after he…” John touched at the curve of his neck.

“Yes.”

John looked uncomfortable. “Did he know, do you think? That I’d… wake up again?”

Sherlock considered. “He must have known it was a possibility,” he said. “But a very, very slim one. A lot of tissue in your body was already dead. You barely had enough blood for minimal brain function. And it was a quick bite.”

John’s jaw clenched.

Sherlock ran his tongue over his own teeth. “I don’t know if he knew, John. But he must have known there was a chance, or else why would he have done it?”

John frowned. “He vanished. He didn’t stay to see?”

“You took _days_ to reanimate, John –”

“But I mean… he went straight away?” John’s frown deepened. “Why – what did you say to him?”

“After it all happened I didn’t say a word,” Sherlock said, harsher than he’d intended, but it felt to him as though he was being accused of something. “I went straight to you and you were dead. He was gone in a blink. Him and his lackey.”

John inhaled through his nose, then snorted as if something had gone up it. He rubbed at his face. “Uh. Sorry…” he pushed away from the ventilated glass, and turned to Sherlock. “I can’t underst… he just went?”

Sherlock nodded.

John’s eyes flicked around the room as if he was searching for something. “He might come back.”

Sherlock gripped the arms of his chair. Surely John didn’t sound _hopeful_?

“That’s possible,” John said, “isn’t it?”

“John –”

“I mean. He could find me. He will be able to do that. He’ll… know I exist, right?”

Sherlock couldn’t hide how his heart was hurting. He stood. “John… you have to understand…” he reached for him, but John didn’t move. Sherlock let his arms drop. “John… when a Creator bites a victim, they have no way of knowing whether or not their actions will result in a new vampire. There is no way of knowing, unless you stay to see the result for yourself.”

John’s red eyes went wide. “So… he might not know I’m…”

“Correct.”

John turned quickly to the window.

Nervous energy shot through Sherlock’s limbs. “John,” he said quickly, “he isn’t out there. I promise you. He will be in hiding. He won’t –”

“I could find him,” John said.

“If you go out there you’ll bite someone,” Sherlock snapped, using the only weapon he had. “I thought you didn’t want that?”

John snarled in frustration, fangs so low they looked painful, the skin on his face and neck taut with barely held-back want and need. He looked appalling – not frightening, though Sherlock thought a human might disagree – and ill. A sick vampire was a rare thing indeed, but John was already at the limits of endurance. How could he do this for another sixteen hours?

Sherlock tentatively reached out, and stroked down the back of John’s head. The new vampire flinched, then relaxed into the touch. His mouth closed and his shoulders dropped as Sherlock stroked his hair.

But the look of abandonment never left his eyes.

And Sherlock knew, from personal experience, that it would be years before it ever did. Moriarty had built a barrier around John’s heart. Whatever love John and Sherlock had before, they would need to tear down the barrier, first.

If they ever did.

If John didn’t keep up this mighty resolve.

Sherlock’s throat began to hurt, though not in thirst.

John, eyes still on the glass in front of him, gently leaned his head against Sherlock’s chest and allowed himself to be held, touched, gentled, and led over to the sofa, where they clung to one another.

In the quiet of the flat, the clock ticking every second sounded so very loud.


	3. Chapter 3

Eight hours.

Nine hours.

Ten hours.

Eleven.

John was hunched over on the sofa, curled into the cushions as though trying to make himself small and invisible. His limbs were clenched tight, knotted together. Occasionally, he would tremble violently, or spasm and cry out.

Sherlock daren’t speak to him. He was having to watch John die for a second time, and with every moment that passed he felt the pain more acutely. He was also, it had to be said, impressed. He had never heard of a newly-created vampire starving themselves back to death, and John’s resolve had to be cast-iron. Sherlock was no longer unsure whether John would hold out or not… instead, he was afraid of the final goodbye he was certain would now come. He sat quietly, trying to memorise the movement of John’s fingers, the way his hair swept to one side, the broad shoulders won by exercise and war. He wished he had had a moment to cherish John’s heartbeat one last time, the colour of his deep blue eyes, and the warmth of his skin. But those things had been stolen from him. He would take, now, what he could.

John gave a small mew of distress, rolling onto his back. His eyes were pillar-box red, gleaming up at the ceiling. His skin was greying, looked mottled around his eyes and mouth.

Sherlock couldn’t help wondering if he was decomposing, or if he was simply deprived of blood. It was difficult to say. This was nothing he had ever seen before.

“Sherlock,” John whispered.

Sherlock went over to him, crawling over the floor to be at eye-level with the distressed vampire. “I’m here, John.”

John’s eyes moved to focus on his face. “Sherlock…” he took a breath he didn’t need. “Sherlock, I don’t think I can…”

Sherlock gripped the sofa cushion hard. “John.”

“I just want to…” John moaned softly, letting his mouth fall open. His fangs were down so far they were over an inch long each, his gums were black with his own old, congealed blood, and risen up with bumps like boils – threatening to burst out of the dead flesh. “It hurts,” he cried.

“I know,” Sherlock forced out. “I know it does.” _Come with me,_ he said silently. _Come with me, and we can stop it hurting. Please. Just say the word and I’ll take you to what you need, bring you what you want, I promise…_

He kissed John on the forehead.

John shut his eyes for a moment. “I can smell them,” he said. “They’re so close. I could just…”

“You could.” Sherlock kissed him again. His skin was ice-cold, even to Sherlock’s lips.

“I don’t want to live like this.”

“What you’re feeling now, I have never felt,” Sherlock said honestly. “I didn’t have your resolve, or your will, or even your desire. It is possible that no one has ever felt as you do now. But…” he glanced away, “…you don’t have to continue like this.”

“I have to,” John forced out between gritted teeth. “I have to…” he tensed again, moaning in pain as his bunched muscles tightened and then relaxed. “Oh god,” he whispered, barely audible with the fangs scraping his lower lip. “Oh god.”

 

*

 

At hour twelve, John starting biting.

Sherlock, pacing around the flat, didn’t recognise the sound until he looked at John and saw the state of his arms.

“John!” he ran forward and grabbed John’s arms, pulling them away from his mouth. “You mustn’t!”

John snarled at him, black blood coating his fangs. “Get off me!” He yanked his arms easily from Sherlock’s grip. “It helps.”

“You can’t bite yourself,” Sherlock snapped.

“It HELPS!” John thundered back. He was shaking. “Helps. The urge.” His arms were covered in unhealed puncture-marks.

Sherlock steadied himself. “You can’t bite yourself,” he repeated. “Please don’t.” He reached up, and undid the top three buttons of his shirt. “If you’ve got to bite something, and you still don’t want to go outside, you can bite me.”

John paused. “I can’t bite you.”

“It’s better than biting yourself.”

“I’ll hurt you.”

“I’m not as sick as you. I’ll heal.” Sherlock pulled his shirt open.

John stared at him, eyes roaming over his exposed skin.

Sherlock realised there was nothing loving or sexual in his look at all. He was seeing if Sherlock would _do_ , as a chew-toy, and nothing else.

John moved over on the sofa, his intent quite clear. Sherlock sat beside him, and let John crawl into his lap, straddling one leg either side.

They’d fucked like this.

It seemed like a lifetime ago.

John eyes Sherlock’s throat. “What happens?” he asked. “If I bite you? Can I… drink blood?”

Sherlock had to smile. “Yes and no. There will be a little, but it won’t help you. It’s dead.”

John leaned forward. “Is this normal? Vampires do this?” His flinching seemed to have calmed a little.

Sherlock gave a small cough. “We do… this. Rarely.” He put his shoulders back. “It is very intimate.”

John paused. “Intimate?”

“Yes…” Sherlock moved his head to look him in the eye. “Incredibly so. I’m exposing myself to you, John, more than being naked or even inside you. I’m giving you all the control there is.”

“You could fight me off.”

“That’s irrelevant. I’m allowing you to do to me what I do to my prey.” Sherlock let out a slow breath. “Do you remember in the barracks? Back in the desert?”

John hesitated, then nodded.

Sherlock raised a hand and stroked down John’s throat. “Do you remember the first time I bit you?”

“Yes.”

“Would you call that intimate? Submissive?”

John nodded again.

“It is an act of submission that cannot be denied. For someone to willing open their veins to you… for a vampire there is nothing greater. And to be on the reverse side…” he gestured between them. “It is frightening and thrilling.”

“You’re frightened of me?”

“As you were frightened of me, once.”

There was a moment of silence.

John put a hand gently to Sherlock’s jaw. “I can’t feel that. What you said. I just feel… thirst. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Sherlock said as John pushed his head to one side. “I love you.”

John’s didn’t say it back. He just held Sherlock’s curls away from his neck, and bit down hard.

Sherlock jolted in pain, and knew nothing else for several minutes as John let go and bit, over and over again, down his neck and chest and arms, each bite vanishing in moments, but felt burning through Sherlock’s skin for much longer.

 

*

 

The thirteenth hour brought rage.

Sherlock, exhausted from his bites, could barely contain the whirlwind that was John, who rocketed through the flat from end to end, screaming and wailing and thrashing on the floors, walls, and ceilings. He smashed every mirror, punched holes into the brickwork and floorboards, and clung onto the window latches screeching in what was unbound agony.

Sherlock knew he had been wrong, then.

John was going to crack. He’d managed more than half a day but now he was losing himself. He hadn’t spoken in words since he bit Sherlock, only growls and hisses that were more animal than anything else. It was a matter of time before he lost himself completely, and attacked someone. Sherlock would have no hope of stopping him.

The only blessing was that the noise of screaming was audible outside the flat, and the street outside was all-but empty. People were keeping away. Whether they knew it was a vampire or not Sherlock had no idea, but the noise John was making was terrifying enough.

He had been sitting with his head in his hands for a while, listening to John shattering the furniture. He had his eyes closed.

He did not see the blue lights outside the window.

Later, he would wonder why he never heard the front door, or register the sound of human footsteps on the stairs, until it was too late.

“SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock raised his head as the door to the lounge opened. He breathed in sharply, the familiar scent hitting the back of his throat.

_Oh no…_

“Sherlock what the _fuck_ is going on in here – ” Lestrade got halfway through the doorway.

A blur he would never have been able to see shoved him against the wall. His eyes went wide as Sherlock shoved his face close to his.

“Get out of here!” Sherlock snarled.

“Sherlock what – ”

What felt like a block of concrete struck Sherlock around the head. He let go of Lestrade and fell to the floor hard.

John had hold of Lestrade, had him against the wall, red eyes blazing, mouth open wide enough to tear the man’s throat out.

Sherlock could only raise a hand.

Lestrade never even got chance to scream before John bit down hard, and the scent of hot human blood filled the air.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for violence, and a lot of it.

The scent of Lestrade’s blood was hot, and delicious, and Sherlock couldn’t help thinking that he must have been a fool to miss it before – clearly The Work had distracted him, but –

John had Lestrade pinned to the wall, off the ground, his mouth fastened to the man’s throat, swallowing noisily once, twice… how long would it take him to drain Lestrade down? He wasn’t a small man, but John’s thirst was…

Sherlock launched himself to his feet, and grabbed hold of John’s head, gripping his jaw with one hand as the other got around his face. Sherlock knew there was every possibility that John wouldn’t let go (or worse, would bite down completely), but this human was his friend. He couldn’t just stand by and let John kill him. He yanked backwards, hard.

Whether it was Sherlocks strength, or sheer surprise, it wasn’t clear. But John released Lestrade and stumbled back against Sherlock’s chest.

Lestrade slumped to the floor, blood pouring from the puncture wounds in his throat.

John screamed, and thrashed like a salmon, trying to bite, trying to shake Sherlock off. Sherlock spun him around, and raised a fist.

He hit John harder than he had ever struck anyone in his centuries of life. He felt John’s skull cave under his knuckles, and the vampire was knocked across the room, landing with a moan against the fireplace.

Sherlock turned away from him, his chest heaving. He hauled Lestrade off the floorboards, and licked up his throat, coagulating the wounds though it took moments he knew they did not have. Lestrade was breathing, but his eyes kept closing and he was shaking from head to foot. Sherlock tried to ignore the thrill of swallowing the man’s blood, but after days of starvation himself – and the fact that he had stolen another vampire’s prey through battle – it was all he could do not to finish the job entirely.

Lestrade groaned. That had to be a good sign. Surely?

There was a hideous creaking crunch of bone as John tried to get to his feet. His skull was knitting back together. He opened his mouth and snarled, blood staining around his mouth.

Sherlock gripped Lestrade tight.

And vanished with him.

They re-appeared instantly, in the accident and emergency department of a busy London hospital. there were gasps and shouts as people backed away from Sherlock, who could only lay Lestrade on the floor as one brave nurse came over, his eyes full of questions.

“Vampire bite,” Sherlock said shortly. “Bad. Don’t know how much blood. He’ll be in shock. Do what you can.” And he vanished again before the medic could speak to him.

He appeared back in Baker Street, grateful to whatever sort of gods there might be that the ability to vanish came to a vampire much later in their new life than the ability to bite. But his gratitude lasted only an instant.

John was on him like a rabid animal, dragging Sherlock to the floor and hitting him so hard Sherlock was dully aware that the injury he had given John was likely being repeated on his own skull. John shook him, hit him again, only this time the hit was a slap, and again, choking angry noises coming from the direction of John’s face.

Sherlock could only lie there, and take it. He had no fight left in him. He’d failed John. Failed him so badly he deserved this beating and more. John had tasted his first blood. He was a vampire, now, for ever. Lestrade… who knew if he would survive that? Sherlock was a failure. He’d failed to protect everyone he… He’d failed to protect everyone.

When he was first turned, in the decade of immediacy that followed, he was convinced his new life was a curse. His family – the Holmes coven who took him in and cared for him – convinced him this was not so. Being a vampire did not have to mean losing his humanity, as long as he remembered they were his prey, his cattle. But cattle should still be treated with compassion, after all. He had accepted it, grown to see humans as a separate species whom he needed to stay strong, but nothing else. His existence was a curse in that he only _existed_. The Work helped. Being a detective. Working alongside humans was tolerable enough. He became a fixture in the police force, handed down like an heirloom to the next detective deemed hard enough to handle him. Lestrade had ignored this tradition, and marched up to Sherlock at a crime scene and asked him to take a look at something more interesting. That had been curious enough. The fact that Lestrade – a human who knew nothing but the dominance of vampires – spoke to Sherlock like he was an annoying member of staff who sometimes delivered the goods… that had been worth sticking around for. And this was how Sherlock had repaid him. Putting him in the path of a new vampire whose sanity was threadbare.

Sherlock blinked, and realised John was no longer hitting him. He tested his jaw, and found it could move. His head hurt, but touching it revealed it was the shape it should be, at least.

“Back with us, are you?” a nasty voice drawled.

Sherlock sat up.

Mycroft was leaning against the mantlepiece. John was on the floor, sitting against the sofa, his red eyes staring into nothingness.

Sherlock glanced back at Mycroft. He was vibrating with anger. Sherlock daren’t look away. He cleared his throat. “You heard?”

“I had a call,” Mycroft said. “From Gregory’s superiors, about him being hospitalised with a severe vampire bite. Given his status, and how few of us he knows, I was forced to consider you.”

“And I suppose I do have a history.”

“Of tearing humans’ throats out? Quite. Of course, arriving here offered another explanation.” He stood straighter, and glanced at John. “You know, he beat you severely.”

Sherlock eased himself up, and managed to sit on the sofa. “I deserved it.”

Mycroft’s expression didn’t change. He just stared for a long moment.

Sherlock turned to look at John. “John?”

“He’s been like that since I got him off you.”

“Off me?”

“I told you, it was severe.” Mycroft examined his nails. “Once I pulled him away… I think he saw what he had done. I knew it would take you a little while to reanimate.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask what John had done to him, then decided he didn’t want to know. He felt weak, that was enough of an indicator that he had had to heal dramatically. He needed blood.

“I’ll stay with him,” Mycroft said, as if reading his mind.

Sherlock didn’t have the strength to argue. “Thank you.”

“When you return… we have things to discuss.”

 

*

 

Sherlock killed his victim. Unfortunately for her, she was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Humans should know not to walk down alleyways in the twilight. Not a mistake she would make again, anyway. Sherlock took everything he could from her, but it wasn’t enough. A sort of rage was building up inside him – rage at himself and rage at the world – and he wanted to kill again. So he did. This time, an old man returning from shopping. The man saw him coming and begged for his life, but Sherlock ignored the human pleas and only let go when the man’s heart stopped beating.

He slumped on the pavement later, feeling emptier than ever.

How was his killing his victims any different than what he had prevented John from doing? Humans were food, that was a legal and social truth. Once bitten into, they were food. Sherlock was no murderer. But when John bit Lestrade… it didn’t seem to matter than Lestrade was no longer a person. Sherlock had wanted to save him.

It was troublesome, making friends of humans. They tended to die, one way or another. One way or another, they became lost to you. Victor, James, John, Lestrade… they were all men Sherlock had lost. All losses he had been the instigator of.

John was right.

This was no life.

John would have been better off dead.

But now… all he had was endless life, and the promise of endless loss.

 

*

 

When he got home, Mycroft was on the phone.

John was standing up, picking up pieces of broken things and putting them into bin bags like an automaton. He looked at Sherlock as he took off his coat, and rubbed his arms as if embarrassed.

Sherlock went over to him. “Are you alright?”

John shrugged. “Don’t have a choice now, do I?”

“You know what I mean.”

John looked miserable. “Greg’s in a critical condition. Mycroft’s speaking to the hospital…” he sniffed. “You went out to feed.”

“Yes, I  -” Sherlock’s words were cut off as John leaned up and licked over his lower lip.

John stepped back quickly. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock touched at his wet face. “Really. You must be… in need.”

John looked up at the ceiling. “Mycroft thinks we should all go out.”

“Sounds like the first good idea he’s ever had.”

“… I don’t want to.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

“It’s done now, isn’t it?” John asked. “Had my… first bite. I don’t need to bite anyone ever again. You said so.”

“Well, that is technically true,” Sherlock admitted, “but –”

“Then, I won’t.” John folded his arms. “I’m stuck like this, now. Forever. I hate it. But I will not become a killer, Sherlock.”

“You don’t have to kill them,” Sherlock sighed, ignoring the two deaths he had caused that evening. “You really don’t.”

“I would have killed Greg,” John said. “If you hadn’t almost knocked my head off.”

Sherlock would have blushed, if he could. “I apologise for that.”

“Don’t. I’m glad you did. I like Greg. I don’t want to kill him. I didn’t even want to bite him but his scent…” John shuddered, and Sherlock noticed with jealousy that it was a shudder of pleasure. “It was right here, in the flat, and I just… I don’t even remember doing it. But I remember how it felt.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I could have killed him. He’s… so poorly, I might still have killed him.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say.

Mycroft came over, putting his phone away. “I think it would be best if the two of you came back to mine,” he said. “I’ve arranged for this place to be restored to its former glory, and Gregory is still in a critical condition so it’s receiving visitors.”

John looked away.

Sherlock sighed. “Your place, brother? Really?”

“Really. You can’t stay here, and there’s nothing else to be done. We can feed on the way, John and I.”

“I won’t,” John said. “I’m not. I’ll… do something else. Blood-bags. Something.”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “John, I don’t know what Sherlock told you before your transformation, but – ”

“He didn’t tell me anything,” John interrupted. “Sherlock didn’t change me.”

There was a heavy silence as Mycroft looked at Sherlock in shock.

Sherlock nodded. “It’s true. John… was bitten by Moriarty.”

John let a small moan escape his lips at the name of his Creator.

Mycroft tried to get hold of his faculties. “I – I see. I assumed… forgive me, Sherlock, I assumed you hadn’t properly –”

“It was not planned,” Sherlock said. “And it was not John’s choice.”

Mycroft glanced about the wreckage as if seeing it for the first time. “…I understand.” He cleared his throat. “Let us at least take up residence at my house. We can… discuss dinner options later.”

Sherlock offered John his hand. “You can’t disappear yet, I’m afraid.”

“Oh yeah, when does that kick in? Before or after my teeth drop out?”

“After,” Sherlock said, pulling him close. “About five years after.”

“Wait – what?”

And the three of them vanished.


End file.
